


(yes, of course, sure, buddy)

by Upupanyway



Series: Honest Mistake [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: A little sexy, Domesticity, Engagement, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life Elements, no plot really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 19:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18857179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upupanyway/pseuds/Upupanyway
Summary: Matt's a bit of a capricious soul by nature. It might be horrific at times, but occasionally, it's delightful. It may be a little hard to follow his thought process, but Foggy goes with it, like always.or; very self indulgent sweet engagement fic because i'm old and soft, dammit.





	(yes, of course, sure, buddy)

It has been a rough seven years and change, but Foggy finds little ways to be content nonetheless. It may be true that all his friends are dumbasses who find new ways to raise his blood pressure every day, but they’re thankfully alive and (relatively) well. He has a steadily growing law firm that accepts payment in many ways, including but not limited to actual money. He has a perfectly decent partner, in just about every sense of the word, even though said partner is, like, dumbass primo on his list. Foggy couldn’t be happier. (As the pedantic lawyer in him clarifies, this is not to say that he is entirely happy with all his circumstances, but that given his circumstances, it would be weird if he were happier. Foggy decides not to dwell on it. _God,_  being an adult is _weird._ )

 

As is so often the case these days, Foggy finds himself on the bedroom floor, cross legged, with papers strewn about him. See, the case is all laid out in front of him, but if he could just formulate an argument that doesn’t entirely rely on the empathetic capabilities of an admittedly stacked-in-favour-of-the-prosecution jury, the next few weeks should be pretty smooth sailing. That doesn’t stop him from wanting a distraction. Aching for it, in fact. He finds himself glancing at the mounted clock on his wall no less than three times within the minute. 6:34.12. 6:34.35. 6:34.73.

 

The distraction comes in the form of the front door jingling unlocked and swinging open, accompanied by a steady whistle in perfect pitch ( _Sing Happy_ from Flora the Red Menace, if Foggy’s asked to place it), and the greasy, rich scents of his top three food places within a 100 mile radius. Foggy falls in love a little more.

 

“Hey Fogs,” Matt greets from the kitchen, and Foggy can just make out the shuffling of a quick table setting. Foggy hums gratefully from his spot because he knows Matt can hear him. Suddenly it all clicks for him when he hears Matt whistle the last few notes of his little tune.

 

“Matt, you’re a genius and I love you!” Foggy calls from the bedroom, finally gathering his papers into a roughly organized manila folder, most relevant pieces toward the top.

 

“What?” comes an amused chuckle, and Matt appears at the door, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands in his pockets, leaning gingerly on the frame.

 

“The employer! There’s been something weird about the regularity of Jun’s work habits. As in, there’s no way he went in at precisely at the same time for the entire week and a half before the fraud supposedly happened. I think there’s been some tampering with records. We need to put him on the witness stand.”

 

“Oh my God, Foggy, yeah, but you realize we’re going to have to delay trial another week?”

 

“For justice, my man, for justice, it's worth it,” Foggy answers absently, shoving the folder to the side and scrubbing his face.

 

Suddenly, a pale hand reaches over and flicks the light off. Foggy hears the distinct turn of the lock of their bedroom door, and, leans against the foot of the bed, suddenly very alert and excitable. It’s dark, sure, but the last of the twilight is still clinging to the walls, and the city lights cast the most mysterious shadows all over the room. It's Foggy's favourite way to be; the city's below and around them, but they're quiet in their bedroom, their own little space.

 

“You work too much,” Matt chides, adoringly. He makes confident strides and settles in front of Foggy, picking up the folder and running over the pages with careful fingers. The reflections on Matt’s glasses dance as he flits through the pages. “No more work in the bedroom- oh my God, Foggy, you’re actually brilliant, by the way.” He shucks the paper carefully towards the desk. Foggy suspects it lands perfectly.

 

Then, Matt’s reaching out to caress Foggy’s stubbly cheeks. “We have a study for a reason, you know.” He punctuates the sentiment with a light kiss.

 

Foggy thinks Matt might be the weirdest person on the planet. It always feels like he just might be three steps ahead. Sometimes Foggy suspects it might be because Matt just never has a plan until the last possible moment. Oftentimes, it just feels like pure spontaneity. Sure, Matt has more than his share of scars and bruises to attest to this, but that capricious decisiveness comes out in romantic ways, too. Matt might take him home the long way because he can tell that the new bakery finally opened. He might come home with a new watch or tie clip that looks suspiciously like metal from Stilt-Man’s newest ruined suit. He might try something new in the bedroom. Those are usually fun. Matt is very flexible. And most people wouldn’t believe this about devout Catholic Matt Murdock, but he’s like, very, very imaginative about carnal acts.

 

Foggy’s not that surprised when Matt shifts closer in the partial dark, slowly tugs his tie off and slides it over Foggy’s eyes. He also shifts Foggy’s hands so that they’re laced behind his head. It’s a comfortable posture, at least. “Stay.” Foggy hears, a playful little note as it reverberates in his ears and chest.

 

“Matt? What’s up?” Foggy asks, already smiling softly. He can vaguely hear a shuffle of clothes being taken off, and folded in a neat pile on the plush chair in the corner. And a final pat as Matt carefully lays his glasses down on top.

 

“Foggy, I don’t know how to express how your body fucking _sings_ when you have a good idea.”

 

“Oh? Is it serenading you now? I think I’m having a few good ideas now.”

 

“I’m sure you are, buddy,” Matt answers, settling himself over Foggy again. Closer, this time. Foggy registers knees at his hips and hips by his teeth. It feels a little ridiculous because Foggy’s still fully clothed and they’re on the carpeted floor; they're not exactly in their spry 20s. “Tell me what you feel,” Matt commands, softly.

 

Foggy knows what this is. There have been countless similar scenarios over the years. Gamely, Foggy lunges forward and is admittedly a little surprised to find a pair of linen dress pants on his lips.

 

There’s a soft but throaty chuckle above him. “Eager, aren’t we?” Matt chastises. “C’mon. You can use your hands, too.” and strong hands find soft hair as Matt pulls his Foggy in to hug him with his abs. Foggy indulges in a kiss to the hardened muscle.

 

“God, Matty, all I feel are your abs. They’re still magnificent, by the way,” Foggy breathes.

 

“Oh? Are we objectifying me again?”

 

“Yep. One hundred percent. I’m definitely not in this relationship for your brains, dude,” Foggy feels around and prods at a particularly egregious scar that trails through both pecs and ends a few inches above Matt’s belly button.

 

“Okay, then tell me about my ass again.”

 

At once, Foggy’s generous, broad hands trail up clothed thighs and give a playful squeeze. Matt hums appreciatively. But as soon as Foggy’s finger’s catch a foreign object in the back pocket, small and round, his breath hitches with several emotions.

 

“Is that-?”

 

“Describe it for me, Foggy.”

 

“Well, it's small, and circular, and there's a giant hole in it- God, Matty, it feels like a fucking ring. That’s what it feels like,” and the vowels get a little wet at the end there.

 

“Do you want it?” Matt asks, and he actually sounds nervous. Foggy nods into washboard abs, and suddenly, Foggy’s hands are too busy working off a slightly damp silk tie to be on Matt. “Hey, geez, Fogs, don’t cry, I haven’t even asked the big question yet!” but Matt’s laughing wetly on his own, too.

 

“Ask it, then, you asshole,” Foggy demands, arms wrapping around the man in front of him, drawing him close at the waist.

 

They've talked about it countless times, as any healthy couple does. Always little things that express surety. "I can't believe I'm gonna be stuck with this the rest of my life," one of them would say, exasperated. Or, "that man's the love of my life," one of them would explain to some bystander, admiringly when the other does something a little brilliant. Foggy's favourite is just the plain, "I'm gonna marry you someday. You know that, right, buddy?" That's been said with increasing frequency these past few months. 

 

That doesn't even begin to prepare him, though. Not for the flood of emotion that confronts him when “Foggy, wanna get married?” exits Matt's mouth.

 

“Sure do, buddy. Sure do.”

 

And it takes a long moment for the tasteful pale gold ring to find Foggy’s finger between laughter and kisses.

 

There’s a million things Foggy wants to say now. “Don’t make me a widower before my time, Matt.” “What flowers do you think you can stand for more than a few hours?” “When did you get this ring, Matt?” “Holy shit, we’re fucking _engaged_!” He hopes they’re all conveyed by his tongue in other ways now. They can figure it out as they go.

 

So that’s how they get engaged. On their bedroom floor, in the last few blinks of twilight, entangled in each other. They stay that way for a while, until Matt’s stomach rumbles and they head to the dinner table for a very indulgent meal and the expensive champagne.

 

When Foggy agrees that Matt is sober enough, Matt heads out in his red suit, as if it's any other day, but he comes back within the hour.

 

“Quiet night?” Foggy asks, comfortable between silk sheets.

 

“Relatively, yeah. Caught a few muggers and scared some sketchy people in a car by jumping on it. It’ll be fine. But I just had the most incredible idea for the reception venue-” Matt begins, tugging off the rubber and Kevlar in favour of soft cotton.

 

Foggy remains hopeful.

**Author's Note:**

> i felt fluffy and i just... needed a happy continuation...


End file.
